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It was found in a cottage across an ocean, and shipped by a cousin I have never met. A box of moments, pickled in Kodachrome, and hidden from time. There, buried under a mound of memories long-since faded, a tuxedo -- tall, with an impressive breadth of shoulders and paired with a baby blue shirt. A black bow tie, tucked under the prominent chin of an angular face with features carved of swarthy tones. A good face.

My father's face.

I have not gazed upon it in thirty five years; not in flesh nor photograph. I have had only those few snap shots left in my mind; images run through the Gaussian filter of time. Dog-eared memories, scuffed with use.

It has been so long. Too long. And I have wondered what he looked like.